Love from London
by amdev
Summary: AU, sort of. Santana didn't go to Louisville, instead she decides to make that trip across Europe she's always wanted. Brittany did graduate, but wants to take the offer from a dance company. Both head their separate ways and live their own lives. Until Brittany starts getting postcards. Inspired by the song from Bløf.


A/N: I've had a draft of this story on my laptop for a long time and I thought I'd finish it. I don't think this fandom needs anymore angst at the moment, so lots of fluff. Please let me know what you think.

* * *

**Love from London**

I miss her everyday. I know we decided this was what's best for us, that it wouldn't be forever, but it still hurts to know she won't be back tomorrow. Or even next week. She'll be back in June, which is seven months from now. Until then, we agreed not to contact one another. Maybe that would help. What a lie.

I still think it _is _the best for us: we've always been so dependant on each other, we need time to grow up. If we moved here together after school like everyone expected, we'd still be the same girls we've aways been. That's not wrong per se, but it wouldn't be healthy. I need to learn how to take care of myself: who to trust, how to cook, when to use the subway or a cab. If Santana was here as well, she'd do all that for me. Because she wants to and likes to make sure I'm all right. She'd be hurt if I told her I want to do all that on my own, because she'd think I rejected her help (and therefore her). It's hard for her to accept that I'm perfectly capable of all these things, because she'd think I wouldn't need her anymore. But I'll always need her, just in a different sense.

At the same time, Santana needs to learn how to open herself up more easily to other people. She's always so scared of strangers, especially since last year when there was a constant group of angry people on her doorstep. It took her parents a few days to settle some sort of restraining order so she could leave the house again without being subjected to violent, hurtful slurs. I'd never seen her so scared, but I'd also never been more proud of her, because she did leave the house. She refused to let them dictate her life and just walked through without stopping or turning around. I offered to let her stay with me (actually, my parents did: I was happy to stay with her anywhere) but she told me that would mean to give in and she couldn't do that. She also forbade me from going to her house until everything was settled, she didn't want me to go through the same thing. I told her I didn't care, but when she explained what it would mean for my parents and sister, I reluctantly agreed. She was so strong; in those five days of hell she didn't cry once, never lost her temper. She'd shake when she got into the car (I'd be waiting for her around the corner) so I could drive her to school, but then she'd take my hand, take a deep breath and smile. She was so strong.

But she's still hesitant when she meets new people. She's always been shy (masked by hostility for those first few years in high school) but now she's honestly _scared_ when she's surrounded by people she doesn't know. So I think it's good that she's travelling on her own. It forces her to meet new people. Plus, she was always interested in history, so I'm sure she's having an amazing time: Europe is sort of an enormous museum. I just wish I wouldn't miss her so much. She's been gone for over two months and I still haven't heard anything beyond the obligatory 'Had a good flight, landed safely' text.

* * *

It starts a few weeks before Christmas.

I came home from rehearsal, dead tired and cold. It's started to snow and although it looks beautiful outside, it's freezing. The fifteen minutes it takes to walk from the subway station to my apartment are just enough to make me lose the feeling in my toes, no matter what shoes I wear. But this time there's a surprise waiting for me in the mail: a postcard.

Actually, it's a picture of a subway station: Chueca. There's a big rainbow flag next to the sign of the Metro. When I turn the card over there's just one sentence on the card:

_I know you'd love it here Britt. – S_

The handwriting is vaguely familiar despite the scrawl and there's a coffee ring just below the S; the ink is a bit smudged, like the person writing it was in a hurry. I don't really know what to make of it and I'm too tired to find out, so I just put it on the fridge and make my way to the shower.

The next day I get another card, this time with the picture of a palace.

_Hey B, I hope you got the other card. Sorry I didn't have a lot of time, but I just wanted to share it with you. A group of us went out drinking and it was so much fun! I think I got a job offer from one of the bartenders, although I'm still not sure whether it was a man or a woman. The weather here sucks though; I thought Spain was supposed to be a warm country? I miss you (and your ridiculous hats, they'd come in handy ;)). Te amo – S_

Over the following days I receive a few more postcards, each one describing something funny that happened to her that day. I'm glad she warns me it might take a while until she can send me another card, she's leaving Madrid tomorrow.

* * *

I don't know if she did it on purpose, but the next time I get another one of her cards is on my birthday. I've never been so glad to see her handwriting and rip the envelope open, eager to see the words she spared for me. (She started sending postcards in envelopes because that way they get delivered faster.) To my surprise it's not a card, but a letter. I can't remember the last time someone sent me a letter. The paper is thin and it's hard to read because she used both sides but I don't care. She took all this time to write me a letter so I'll take whatever time I need to make sure I read it all. For the first time today, I'm glad I don't have any plans to celebrate later tonight.

Santana's in Rome and the first thing she mentions is, once again, the cold. It's cute how indignant she is about that, like it's a conspiracy against her personally, just to make sure she can't enjoy this trip as much as she wanted. Still, the sights are amazing and she has to admit it's a lot easier to get a good look at them without the hordes of crazy tourists that swarm the city at warmer times. As proof, she also sent a sketch from the Trevi fountain.

Maybe, if she's there long enough, I can send her my favourite hat.

Over the next four months, Winter turns into Spring and I get used to finding envelopes with strange stamps in my mailbox. We still haven't had any real contact; she never includes a return adress since she's moving so fast. She still sends postcards mostly, but sometimes she'll surprise me with another letter, drawing or even a poem. She wrote me a song for Valentine's Day, but something must have gone wrong in Budapest because I didn't get it until early March. Not that it stopped me from crying and walking around like a mad woman. It was also the first time since she left that I danced on my own again.

I couldn't stop laughing when she told me about the ceremony from the Evzone-guards, in front of the Greek parliament in Athens. It must have looked ridiculous and I can imagine her staying there for hours, laughing every time the guards change while telling herself it's not that funny, or pretending it wasn't her when people look at her strangely. When I read things like that, it makes me miss her so much. Reading about her experiences made me feel close enough not to miss her as much as I used to, but sometimes (like with the song) it has the opposite effect. The six weeks it will take her to come back home will seem longer than these last few months.

* * *

The next letter I receive is from Prague. She didn't originally plan to go there but she'd heard so many stories about it that she decided to make a small detour. The way she describes walking through narrow streets, the Charles Bridge and rooftops made of bronze make it easy to imagine walking there with her.

Maybe one day I will.

When I finish reading the letter, I see there's something else in the envelope: a picture. The quality is awful and the lighting is off, but after looking at it for the rest of the evening, I'll find a frame for it. It's the first time I've seen her since she left in September and she looks gorgeous. She's wearing an elegant gown, a simple necklace and matching diamond earrings. But there's something different about her and it takes me a while to notice it's her hair. Suddenly I remember her ranting about useless hairdressers who don't speak decent English somewhere between Venice and Heraklion but I don't agree with her. They didn't ruin her hair, it looks amazing and it makes _her_ look amazing. It's shorter than I'm used to and I love it. She's more confident than I remember her being, smiling in a casual way; she's radiant. I curse the person who got to take this picture and the camera as well, because they got to be in her presence and see the shimmer in her eyes I only catch a glimpse of.

On the back of the picture she wrote another message: _We went to the Opera. I'm running out of money so we had to sit directly under the roof, at the back of the theatre. It was still amazing, although I'm glad we brought some programs to use as a fan; it was so hot. We were supposed to go to a ballet but I couldn't because it wouldn't be fair to you and it would have reminded me of you too much._

It's the first time she mentions missing me since that card from Madrid. I really hope she knows I miss her too.

* * *

It's May and I have a lot more free time now. It gives me the opportunity to walk around the city and find hidden places that make me feel at home. Since it's getting warmer as well, I take a lot of walks through different parks, trying to find the one. I always imagined spending days, weekends, at the park when I was older. It has this mature feeling about it that I love and I think I'm ready for it now. Having picnics, reading a book, playing football with some friends. Just lying in the sun, with her.

She'll be back in three weeks and I still haven't found the perfect park yet so I'm getting slightly desperate. I know she won't be _here_ in three weeks (her mother would kill her if she didn't come home first), but I still want to be prepared for when she does come to New York. She told me she will in her last letter. It was slightly incoherent, which I think has something to do with those weird coffee shops in Amsterdam, but she mentioned it several times so I know she was serious about it.

I'm excited to show her around and tell her some of my stories. I'm not sure it will be as entertaining as what she experienced during all these months, but I'll try my best to make her love this city so much she won't want to leave. I really wish she'd tell me what her plans are for after the Summer. There's no doubt she'll go to someplace big and energetic, where people won't judge her but admire her and bask in her glory. By those people I mean myself, and I really hope 'someplace' is New York because I can't stand missing her for another year and I'm bound to the city for the time being. I don't regret taking the offer to dance here and not one of Santana's various offers to join her (although they were incredibly tempting) but I hope I'll be able to convince her to stay. So first, I have to find that perfect park.

* * *

During one of my walks, I get a little lost (not too much because I learned from past mistakes and I know New York is far from perfect) and that's when I find it. It's small and quiet and only has a few trees. But it also has a pond and the people that do pass by seem friendly. What seals the deal though, is a small coffee shop that serves coffee that is so strong I'm starting to think I made the wrong order. The man behind the counter simply laughs at me when he sees my reaction and shakes his head. I'm slightly insulted by the gesture, until he comes back with a glass of water and some delicious almond cookies and warns me that their coffee is not like that weak stuff Starbucks serves. He apologises and offers to give me my money back. I wave away his offer and tell him I'll be sure to come back here soon. Santana will love it.

* * *

When I get home a few days later, I almost break my neck walking up to the door and looking for my keys at the same time. There's a guitar case waiting for me. I don't play the guitar, nor do I know anyone in the city that does. But there's a receipt of some sort on it with my name and adress so I carry it inside. It's heavy, but not enough to contain a guitar. I don't know much about guitars or cases, but I love this one. It's old and ragged, with paint that's starting to flake. It's a dirty, army green and decorated with brass knobs and clasps. When I turn it over, I see some white smudges, like someone rested their hand on it after painting. Across the body of the case someone wrote _Souvenirs_ with a shaky hand. After looking at it from all angles, I decide to open it and can't help the snort that escapes me. The case is lined with some awful, fluffy material that I think used to be red once upon a time, but has faded to some questionable shade of pink. There's a small segment which I guess was intended to keep picks or strings but when I open it, there's a postcard inside. Of course.

_Dear Brittany,  
Paris is amazing. __Sure, the people are snappy and rude when you don't speak perfect French but the city itself is amazing. After a horrendous climb of several thousand steps up a steep hill, I got to Montmartre and found this at a market between lots of other junk. I'm ashamed to say how much it cost me. But I got the guitar for free, so I guess that counts for something. Still have to buy four strings for it.  
Anyway, I decided to send it back home so I wouldn't have too much baggage for the flight home. I'll sneak in the guitar somehow, maybe woo the stewardess with a serenade ;) (Just to be sure: I'm joking, I'd never do that for someone who isn't you.) Will you keep it safe until I get there? I'll take the train to London this afternoon and then I'll be home soon. I can't wait to finally be able to speak English again without having to feel guilty or repeat myself six times.  
A bientôt chérie, je t'aime._

My cheeks are warm and I know I must look like a fool right now, but I don't care. She's coming home soon. _Home._

* * *

The Friday that next week, I get a call in the middle of the night. It takes me a few seconds to make out all the sounds on the other side and I take the phone away to look at the number. It's unfamiliar and has far too many digits to be from around here, so I just put it back.

"Hello?"

There's some more rustling before I hear someone take a deep breath and releasing it shakily.

"Hello? Who is this? It's the middle of the night and I was having a really great dream, so unless you say something in the next five seconds, I'm hanging up on you."

Despite all the background noise, I hear a soft chuckle and before it fully registers who it belongs to, the silence is broken.

"Hey Britt, it's me, Santana."

Like I needed her to tell me. I'd know that voice anywhere, even when I'm still groggy from being woken up at four in the morning. I can't believe how much I missed it.

"I'm sorry for calling you, especially at this hour, and I know we said no contact, but I'm about to board and I… I needed to hear your voice. God, I miss you so much."

I don't need to see her to know she's crying and it doesn't surprise me when I gasp almost painfully, or when my shoulders start shaking uncontrollably and I'm laughing at the same time. We just laugh for another minute, from happiness and relief.

"I'm really glad you called. Unless I'm still sleeping and this is some crazy dream. I don't think I want to wake up then."

"It's not a dream, baby. I promise." There's a small pause and some more rustling before she's back.

"Please try and get back to sleep now, okay? They're calling for me and I really don't want to miss this flight. I'll be back soon."

Another pause.

"I love you."

Before I can tell her I love her as well, the call is disconnected and the screen goes black. I should get back to sleep.

* * *

When my alarm goes off a few hours later, I'm still not sure whether it was a dream or not. I reach over for my phone and see it _was_ real. I made sure to keep this weekend free (just in case), is it too late to book a flight to Columbus? Maybe I should call her parents first.

Maribel sounds rushed and out of breath when she picks up the phone and doesn't let me talk. She just tells me to stay home and I'll see Santana in a few days before promptly hanging up. That was rude. She must be busy preparing the house for Santana's return, probably working on three different dishes at the same time or yelling at her husband for putting up the streamers the wrong way. She's very serious about those streamers for some reason. I'm sad I'll have to miss the reception party, but I don't blame her for not inviting me. We hardly spoke these last nine months and I'd feel like I was intruding anyway. Not that staying here makes me feel any better. I switch on the television and hope some cartoons will cheer me up or at least distract me enough.

* * *

That night, I invite a friend over for dinner. I've been restless all day and if I don't find some distraction, I'll go crazy or _do_ something crazy (like booking that flight to Ohio). I'm surprised when there's a knock on my door not fifteen minutes later; he lives at least half an hour away. Maybe he was in the neighbourhood?

I know it's her before I even see her. She still wears the same perfume and I feel different, walking to the door. She looks exhausted and so, so beautiful. The traces of hesitance disappear when I throw the door open the rest of the way and tackle her to the ground. I know it might have hurt her, but I don't care right now. She's back, she's here.

* * *

We spend the next day at the park. We have a blanket, sandwiches and some drinks. She even falls asleep for a litlle while, head resting gently in my lap. I trace her face for a long time, just looking at her. From time to time, I'll brush some hair out of the way. She doesn't wake up, but burrows further into me and lets out a small sigh. We have time to share all the stories, we can rest for a while.


End file.
